#this photo fills me with an almost unbearable melancholy

[swiftsnowmane]

Lithuanian woman with a wolf puppy. Poland, before World War II.

Photo by Adam Wislocki (1888-1943). Source.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Oblivion

Part Seven: You See Right Through It 

A/N: Erik is keeping his word to let you continue to see Logan even after the wedding, but at what cost to you? At what cost to him? This trip is going to be different, but how? 

Warnings: language, mentions of drug use, overdose, suicide, character death, sexual assault

Word Count: 3,244 

Harding Investments Incorporated Makes Merger Official As Alan Harding’s Daughter Ties The Knot With Erik Speer of Speer Financial.

The two weeks that followed your wedding to Erik were the most unbearable that Logan could recall. The news was ablaze with photos from the day; of Erik’s arm draped around you, that smug, poisonous grin on his face. His fingertips curled possessively over your shoulder, his grip white knuckled like he knew that Logan was doing everything he could to rip you from him, daring him to try. The articles all went on to talk about the financial aspects of the merger, speculating where the newly acquired funds will likely be invested. Nowhere in any of them did your name appear, and why should it? You were just another asset to be traded or bought to these people. The only mentions of you at all were in regards to fashion, with an editorial on your gown and the authentic, vintage lace that was hand-sewn onto the dress. Logan could still feel the fine tulle beneath his fingers as the pictures scrolled before his eyes. He felt sick, a pit deepening in his stomach, swallowing him from the inside out. You looked so lost, so resigned and small. The spark in your eyes from that first night had been doused so thoroughly it was almost absurd to think that it had ever even been there. He could only imagine what each day had been like for you, waking up as Erik’s wife, how that title was taking a toll on your will. He could only imagine the way Erik would abuse his role as your husband, and the thought of that cruel monster’s hands on your body scorched his blood. He scratched at his forearm, fighting every urge to quench that fire in his veins with a sharp needle and a full syringe.

“This isn’t who you are, Logan… This isn’t all that we are…”

Your voice filled his ears then, and he felt your soft touch tracing the reddish purple webs that were still barely visible against his fair skin. A choking sob emanated from deep in his soul as his dark eyes swam, and he forced air in and out through his nose to try to control his breathing. She needs you, he told himself. She needs you as much as you need her, so you can’t leave her...you can’t do this to her…  He hadn’t shot up since you’d told him that there was so much more for you both than this pain, this suffering, and he wouldn’t do it now, not when there was still a chance that the plan could work. But the way he’d been beaten down for so long left him sure that if the plan were to fail, if he were to truly lose you and all the hope you’d given him and all the fire that there was between you, that there’d be no other road for him to take. As it was you’d found him clinging to his last lifeline, treading water and fighting exhaustion. You’d somehow breathed life back into him, somehow given him some of your strength, and he wouldn’t throw that gift away, not yet.

He remembered the way that you’d kissed him, standing beneath the stars, your white lace shining against the night, against the rich black suit he wore. He recalled the way his lungs strained as his lips refused to leave yours, recalled the way your heart hammered against his chest as you pressed yourself as close as you could, like you were trying to leave your bones behind and inhabit his instead. “We’re almost free,” you’d said to him, dropping your lips behind his ear, so much cautious hope in your voice that it broke his heart.

“Almost,” he’d responded, taking his hands from your waist. One moved to the small of your back and the other wound up around your shoulders, fingers wrapping gently around the base of your neck. He felt your silent tears soaking into his shirt as he cradled you to his body, rocking slowly, like a melancholy dance.

“I don’t want to go to him tonight, Logan,” you whispered, and he suddenly felt disgusted with his own selfishness when you were suffering like this. “I don’t want him to touch me… I… I want you Logan, not him…” He felt another piece of his heart chip off and crumble to dust as a shallow breath slipped from his lips and his thumb traced patterns against the pulse point of your throat. If I could kill him right now I’d do it without thinking, I’d fucking- but you interrupted his murderous thoughts as you continued, voice cracking slightly. “You know that...right? You know I...you know I don’t want him…”

You were more concerned with the way he was feeling than with yourself; more concerned with the way he was taking this and with making sure that he knew where you stood. Your body was about to be stolen from you- again- by Erik’s rough hands and forceful actions, and your main concern was ensuring that Logan knew that you wanted him instead. He spoke your name, silencing your shuddering breaths and your babbling assurances as his hands found their way back to your face, pulling back to look into your eyes. “Hey...hey, hey...I know… I know… please...don’t worry about me, okay?” Your tears fell over and between his fingers, and he let them as you nodded, reaching one hand up to tuck an errant lock of his hair back in place and out of his eyes. “I’m so sorry that I can’t… do anything...I’m so sorry.” His words melted into kisses- on your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids- as you sunk back into him, tightening your hold on him. I hate this. I want to kill that fucking bastard.

“I just want you,” you said again. “Only you… whatever he does to me,” Logan felt his heart thud to a hard, abrupt stop at the combination of pain and strength in your words. “Whatever he does to me won’t matter...as long as I can have you.” There was a detached quality to your voice as you spoke about Erik that demolished him, but he knew that detaching was the only way that you could bear the unspeakable.

“You have me. You have me, always. I’m not going anywhere you’re not coming, too, remember?” His tone was soft and he spoke slowly and deliberately.  “I’m getting you off that island...remember?” He ran his hands up and down your back, resuming the gentle swaying motion as he rocked you beneath the stars. “And I’ll see you again, soon… so soon, just hold on…”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Two weeks after the worst day of your life you sat on the train, wringing your trembling hands as the scenery flashed by on either side. Like always, you ignored the looming mountainscape, paid no attention to the way the clouds had been hung in the sky, so close you should be able to touch them. You crossed, then uncrossed your legs, shifting in your seat and scrunching up your face in discomfort. You could feel the blood rushing in your ears, pulsing in your skull, the anticipation of getting there worse than ever before. It was the same damn seat on the same damn train and you were passing by the same damn cactus patch. But this trip was going to be different from any other for many reasons.You were married now. You’d been damaged further by Erik and his influence on your life.  

You looked down at your hands, shaking in your lap, at the veins and the bones that you could see through the skin. They looked frail. You never thought of yourself as weak, not even the night of the engagement party; you’d fought then, too, but the alcohol and the Xanax had ideas of their own and you didn’t even know what you’d done until you were covered in your own blood, convincing yourself that this was the right option. You didn’t always win, but you always thought of yourself as a fighter. No matter the odds, no matter if you were scared or hurt, no matter if you were alone or if you even stood a chance in Hell, you  always fought. But fighting had proven nearly impossible in the weeks following the wedding, Erik draining every ounce of your strength that he could. You turned your left hand over, and though you weren’t wearing them now, you could still feel the weight of your rings, like chains, tethering you to a man who seemed intent on breaking you down to your smallest self.

Logan, or the thought of him, had been the only beacon, the sole source of warmth, the only thing whispering in your ear to keep trying. You called on the memory of his tongue tracing your shoulder blade, his bottom lip dragging along behind it; on the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm while you lay, sleepily smiling against his shoulder; on that lock that clicked open inside your soul when he’d found you, against all odds and defying reason; you called every night as you stared at the ceiling in the dark.

The night of the wedding, while he held you, swaying under the stars, you’d agreed that the next time you met in the park that you would go directly to the chapel- that he wouldn’t wait for you on the platform like last time, taking Erik’s threats about anyone recognizing the two of you as seriously as possible. While it was the safest thing to do, you hated the idea of having to wait even longer to see him, of him having to wait to see you. You went directly to the stables as soon as you exited the train, practically running, but trying not to call too much attention to yourself. You didn’t think Erik had any other Hosts programmed to watch you, and you didn’t see Angela anywhere, but you couldn’t take any chances. You reached the stable and saw that it was overrun with Guests, saw that there was a wait for horses, and your heart fell through your ribcage. It was only twenty minutes before you were sitting in your saddle, but you knew Logan would worry. You rode as hard as you could, pleading with whatever higher power wanted to listen that nothing else would keep you from him.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Three hours. Logan checked his pocket watch, one foot bouncing anxiously. He clenched his jaw, muscles tense as he narrowed his eyes, peering out the window. It’s a three hour ride. Why isn’t she here? The fat sun was hanging at the perfect height to cast its light through the large stained glass, throwing colors around the room and over his face. It was beautiful, but he couldn’t appreciate it, not when he’d expected you to be here by now. He shoved the watch back inside his pocket and paced across the small chapel. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness, the sound of his own breathing the only other thing in the room. He started running through reasons for why you were late, shooting most of them down as soon as they came up; Maybe the train broke down- it doesn’t. Maybe she got a slower horse- they’re all the same fucking horse. He grabbed at his hair with both hands, pushing it back and down behind his head before gripping his neck and hanging his elbows over his shoulders. Maybe something happened...maybe she didn’t come… “No.” he said out loud, shaking his head. She wouldn’t… pressure like a heavy stone weighed on his chest. He knew you wouldn’t just not show up, knew you wouldn’t have changed your mind. Then where is she? He felt bile rise up in his throat at the idea that Erik had done something to...interfere. “Fuck!” he kicked a long wooden bench, hard as his hair fell over his eyes. He sunk down to the ground, grabbing the soft blue blanket that was draped over the bench he’d just stomped on the way down. He held it in his lap, knees bent up in front of himself. He swore he could still feel you as he ran the faded fabric through his fingers, could still feel the residual warmth from where your skin had been, from the place where your heart had beat against his own. “Where are you?” he asked the air, worry wobbling his vocal chords.

Another twenty minutes went by as he sat there, the blanket in one hand, his pocket watch dangling from the other. He was starting to give in to the worst of his thoughts when the far off sound of hooves against the gravel broke the deafening silence. Logan scrambled to his feet and didn’t even bother checking out the window to make sure that it was you- if it wasn’t, if it was some kind of trick...well, if it wasn’t you nothing mattered. He threw open the door as you rode closer and faster, striding from the entrance, long legs turning over quickly to reach you as soon as he could. He felt a relief fall off of his back like the weight of existence as you dismounted and ran towards him. She’s here.

He could hear your breath catch as he got closer to you, could see tears shining in your eyes and on your wet cheeks, and the two of  you collided like clouds in a storm. His lips were on you as soon as they could make contact, and his hands were in your hair, gripping your face, sliding down your arms and around your back to bring you closer, always closer. Never close enough, never too much. He leaned his forehead against yours as both of you shook with the release of anxiety and uneven breaths. You snaked your arms under his, flattening your palms against his back and he felt more solid with your arms around him than he ever did on his own. He felt like maybe you were right; maybe he could be more than all of the things that had hurt him, maybe, if he had you and you had him. He closed his eyes and kissed you slowly, breathing into the kiss, feeling you breath against him. “I was so worried,” he confessed, lips still pressed to yours. “So worried that you-”

“I’m sorry Logan,” you answered, dropping your head. “There was a tour group ahead of me and the stables, when I got there, the horses, they were all out and-” the words were running from your mouth tripping over themselves to get out, your eyes wide and panicked. “I knew you’d be worried, I was worried too, I’m sorry Logan,” you dissolved against him as he began trailing his hands over your back.

Logan shook his head, swallowed the tears that were threatening to spill from his own eyes- of relief and fear and anger, of something else that he wasn’t quite sure of, love?- and spoke softly. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. You’re here, safe with me.” He looked you over, finally seeing you, finally seeing…

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“I am. I’m here with you, I’m-” You stopped at the look in his eyes, hard and angry as you followed them to where they were trained on your arm, where your sleeve had gotten pushed up during your embrace...where Erik’s big purple thumbprint marred your porcelain complexion. Your eyes flew back to his as he reached out to push your sleeve further up your arm, nostrils flaring and jaw clenching under his beard at the sight of several more finger shaped bruises.

“He did this to you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a flat statement, laced with hatred for your husband.

You kept eye contact with Logan, even though it hurt to see his ebony depths swirl with rage and sorrow. You let out a shuddering sigh. Wait until he sees my legs… You’d fought Erik, the first few nights. And for a brief moment you’d seen excitement flicker in his murky, swampy eyes, but eventually he grew tired of prying your legs apart, of holding you down so you couldn’t punch or slap or scratch. If you had it your way, you would have fought every night, every time he tried to touch you. You would have died fighting. But after five nights of that, Erik’s pride had taken a hit. He was Erik Speer, now CEO of Harding Investments Incorporated. He was on top of the world and he didn’t think he should have to work this hard to fuck his wife. He threatened to keep you from Westworld, from Logan...threatened to share his stash of recorded information with your father and Jim, and that changed your tune. You continued to fight, in your mind, closing off and keeping him out. But you complied and let him do what he wanted, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

You nodded in answer to Logan’s statement and he was silent for a long time as your heart banged an erratic beat. Reaching out, you slid your palm against his cheek and felt him lean into it as he shut his eyes. “It’s okay, Logan. It’s okay. Like you said, I’m here. I’m safe with you.” You kissed him and it took a few seconds but he snapped out of it and kissed you back. He took your hand in his and the feel of his fingers wrapping around yours helped soothe both of you. Later, laying under the stained glass, the late afternoon sun still throwing blue light through the intricate design above you, he kissed every one of your bruises, lips lingering on your arms and shoulders, on your calves and the soft skin of your inner thighs. You forgot the world you’d left behind. This was your world now, you and Logan, just like Juliet’s plan. Nothing else mattered, everything else was just a screen, a film, but when it was just the two of you, you could see through it, see what mattered. You’d spent the entire night in his arms, talking and trading kisses, sharing secrets and sharing your bodies. Tomorrow is a big day, you thought as you felt dreams take your mind and his touch slowed, his hand growing heavier as it rested fully against your back. Tomorrow everything changes.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Two years after your last trip to Westworld you sat in front of a screen, trembling as you read the words that scrolled across. You knew the news was coming, knew what day it would come and what it would say. But reading the words- “found unresponsive”, “heroin overdose”, “youth cut short”- and applying them to Logan felt like a dagger through your chest, felt like a vacuum sucking the air from your chest and stilling the beat of your heart. It felt like ending. You knew it was coming but knowing and seeing were two different things. Processing information and emotion were vastly different. To think of Logan, succumbing to the darkness that he carried, that he fought for so long, that you always tried to help him fight...to think of that was too much. You tore your eyes from the screen and left the room.  

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

@something-tofightfor @my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @ymariejp @obscurilicious @belladonnarey @ms-delos

[buncompass]

Last night I had a dream about being a ghost hunter. I worked in a team and we traveled around the east coast investigating supposedly haunted places. 

A woman had contacted us about an old New England Victorian house that she had inherited from her grandmother. Marsha loved her Gammy’s house and wanted to move into it, but every time she had visited as a child, she had the pervasive feeling that something was following her. She assured us it hadn’t felt malignant and admitted she wasn’t entirely convinced herself; her mother had always chided her for making up stories when she mentioned it. Gammy, bless her, had never discouraged the notion, but something about the way Gam smiled made her feel like there was more to the house than its beautiful and spacious interior. Marsha opted to err on the side of caution and used some of the funds she’d also inherited to hire us to do a routine check.

My team and I arrived at the house on a crisp October morning. The house had a haunting beauty to it; dark siding that had faded from a handsome plum to something else, white detailing that had yellowed, and a creeping ivy along the eastern side of the house that could almost reach the witch’s hat turret. We unloaded our gear and made our way up the splintered front steps to a blood red door. 

Upon crossing the threshold, the six of us gave a collective shudder. The house was as beautiful inside as it was out, but there was an unnatural chill in the air. We had all come from New England originally, and were no strangers to cold, but this was something more. It seeped down our spines and filled our bones with a surreal heaviness. Though we were punch-drunk from the numbness in our skulls, we began our usual process. 

It is important to take an initial tour of any haunted property. Half the reason paranormal investigators get spooked is due to being in an unfamiliar place while fighting through the feeling that something is there. In order to avoid false positives, we always made sure to walk around the house as a group with all the lights on. We started in the basement. The scariest thing about that was one of the guys walking through a cobweb and yelling in surprise. On the ground floor we discovered creaky old floors, a closet door that didn’t shut properly, and evidence of mouse damage. The second floor was disappointingly not-scary, but proudly displayed years of what looked like family photos on the walls. The third floor and tower gave us pause. The chill that we had been ignoring doubled, and I felt the base of my skull crackling with an energy that I could not place. When I approached the stairs leading to the top of the tower, the sensation dripped down my neck and into my back. I held up a hand as a signal to my team and pulled out my cards.

“Hello,” I called out, my voice echoing around the apparently deserted space. “We’re not here to hurt you. A woman inherited this house and would like to move in. We just want to know how you feel about that.”

I sat on the floor in front of the tower stairs and shuffled the deck. As I did so, a breath of wind ruffled the hair on my forehead. I looked up the dark stairway but saw nothing.

“Are there any windows open?” I asked the rest of the team. 

“No, we checked,” Alicia replied. I nodded and fanned the cards out on the bottom step.

“A woman named Marsha inherited this house from her grandmother,” I said. “She used to visit the woman who lived here as a child. Marsha told us that she always felt like someone was with her when she visited. Was that you?”

I sat and stared at my deck, reciting prayers in my head to keep myself calm and to give the entity enough time to make a choice. Years of experience taught me that physical manipulation can be difficult for some of them. A card twitched enough to displace the others around it. I picked it up.

“Two of Cups,” I reported, and my team nodded. Someone was here, and they were seeking someone. I returned the card to the deck, shuffled again, and laid them out a second time.

“If you could, please pick three cards for me. I’d like to get to know you.”

Much more quickly this time, three cards twitched. I picked them up in the order they moved and spread them out on the second step.

“The Hermit, the Seven of Cups, and the Queen of Pentacles” I recited.

A sense of sharp loneliness bloomed in my heart. It expanded outward, reaching into my lungs, and filling my rib cage with undiluted melancholy. Tears began to leak out of my eyes. I put a hand to my face in surprise. Without realizing it, I had begun to cry. The team moved forward and sat behind me. I felt my friends’ hands on my shoulders. The sharpness of the feeling faded, leaving a warm but sensitive spot behind.

“There’s someone here,” I reported, rubbing my eyes with my sleeve. “She’s been very sad for a very long time.” 

“What if it’s a trap?” Jameson asked. 

“We’ll have to find out,” Wellesley replied. He stood and faced the stairway. “Hello, sir or madam. Is there anything you think we should know about you?”

The door at the top of the stairs flew open with an explosive bang. 

“Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all” Jameson laughed. 

“Better to be safe than sorry,” pointed out Tim.  It was our rule of thumb. Tim and Alicia turned to return to the ground floor as I gathered up my cards. Working in pairs was another rule we lived by. I looked up the stairs.

“They’ll be right back, and then we’ll head up there together, okay?”

We waited until the unmistakable sound of boots heralded the return of our friends. With our safety equipment securely in place, I led the way up the narrow, rickety staircase to the gaping doorway.

The tower was a sharply-slanted room, meeting at a point above the solitary light bulb. Decades’ worth of dusty boxes circled the walls and a strong scent of something musty clung to our noses. The feeling of loneliness filled my spine again, and grew stronger as I walked through the space. When the pain of the entity’s isolation became nearly unbearable, it stopped. I looked down at an old, dust-covered trunk. After a few grumblings and jokes between us (”why is it always a trunk?” “what are you expecting, a boggart?”), we opened it and discovered it was full of soft crocheted blankets, each folded and wrapped in old newspapers. All of the newspapers bore articles from the early 40s. We began to empty the trunk, gently unfolding the papers and examining them for any tell-tale signs of what we could be dealing with. It wasn’t until the second to last blanket was removed that Wellesley found something.

“Listen: ‘local boarding house shut down after matron’s death.’“

We read through the article. A local woman named Judith had used the house Marsha inherited as a boarding house. She took in those that others wouldn’t, and the article detailed her kind and supportive spirit, even expressing admiration at blankets that she crocheted for those in need. At the bottom of the article was a small picture of a smiling woman standing in front of a much cleaner-looking home.

“Hold on, I recognize her,” Nikki took the paper from Wellesley. “She was in one of the portraits downstairs!”

We packed up the displaced blankets and gently returned them to the trunk. Once everything was tucked away, we made our way down to the second floor to investigate the portraits. One half of the long hallway held antique group shots, the other side displayed modern pictures of smaller families. Each antique picture held a group of people, but upon closer inspection, they didn’t appear related. Judith stood centered in each picture, and got steadily older until the last picture in the hallway, where she was noticed by her absence. The group of people had left her space open, and each one of them was holding a blanket.

“There’s a little girl there,” Alicia pointed to the picture.

Next to Judith’s empty space stood a young girl with a kind smile. I turned to the other side of the hallway and saw the same young girl in those pictures. I walked down the hallway, finding the girl as she grew from child to teen, teen to adult, and adult to elderly. The last picture had to have been taken in the 90s, based on the outfits. It showed the young girl as an elderly woman standing with yet another young girl. 

“Excuse me, I just want to look at the back of this photo,” I said to the feeling in my spine. I took the picture off the wall and gently opened the back of the frame, hoping that this woman, like my own grandparents, had the habit of writing who was in the picture. I read the inscription aloud.

“Justine and Marsha, 1994.”

“So, what are we thinking?” Tim asked the group.

“Justine was Marsha’s grandmother, I remember her telling me when I asked about the house. Justine knew Judith somehow. Maybe they were related?” Alicia suggested.

“So Judith could be the spirit that Marsha always felt, and maybe she’s sad because the house wasn’t as full as it used to be?” Wellesley added.

“I have an idea!” Nikki said.

We all turned to look at her. She was smiling.

“Remember how we felt less sad when we all sat with you? Maybe we just need to make the house feel like a home again.”

We called Marsha and asked her to come up, and to bring friends. We explained our theory, and she happily agreed. She arrived with her husband, siblings, and all of their children. After the routine explanation and suggestions, the family took to the house and began to clean. Windows that hadn’t been opened in years were pulled up, floors that bore more dust than wood were swept, and Wellesley plugged in a speaker. Music and noise filled the house as my team and the family worked together to revitalize what we could. By the time the sun began to sink over the horizon, casting the house into a warm orange glow, it was as spotless as an old house could be.

Marsha’s husband called for pizza, and we gathered in the old dining room and sat at a table that had served hundreds of people other than ourselves. We shared stories about paranormal investigating, they told stories about the house. Marsha told us about her Gammy Justine, who had been adopted by Judith as a child. After Judith’s unexpected death, Justine grew up in the house being raised by the few boarders who stayed behind.

When the pizza was gone, the trash taken out, and most people gone, Marsha stood in front of us with a warm smile on her face.

“This isn’t quite what I expected when I hired ghost hunters,” She said kindly. Our team smiled in return.

“Movies make ghosts seem far scarier than they are. Most of them are just lost people. Judith poured her heart and soul into this house to make it a home for those in need, it’s only natural that an echo of her stayed behind.” Alicia explained.

“I’d say you’re safe to move in. In fact, the sooner the better. Judith hasn’t liked being lonely. She probably saw Justine in you and liked you, that’s why she followed you but never anyone else.” I said.

Marsha thanked us all, and we packed up our things. It was fully dark now, and as Jameson drove our van down the driveway, I looked back up to the tower. There, illuminated by the light of the lonely bulb, stood a smiling Judith standing next to a young Justine. Judith raised her hand in a wave, and the window went dark.

[solemnrosary]

Things that are, things that were, things that will never be

More stuff bogging my headcase so, out it goes. No trauma stuff this time, to my surprise.

Today’s been a somber morning. For once, I slept a full night’s rest, since the longest time. I didn’t see nightmares or upsetting scenes, since the longest time. But I did revisit some places. I saw people, old and new. New patches in old buildings, the world rehashing itself.

That’s quite normal, the reordering of things. The places in my dreams do not exist in the waking world, never in the form and manner they take in dreams. Its architecture melds into vast places, empty spaces, entire streets and cities. The places themselves are completely new, or they’re several spaces reconnecting and overlapping. Sometimes, there are forests, deserts, bogs, beaches. Mostly though, everything’s structured into buildings. Cafes. Winding staircases and long hallways and entire malls. But, rarely if ever, are they places that I’ve been to. They aren’t the places of my memories. Partly, I feel, because I do not like them. The memories, the places and people they connect to. The spaces may be familiar, that I’ve visited them many times over many dreams, but they don’t ‘exist’. Windows to stores, exhibits, museums, malls, bright skylighted walkways, a narrow cobblestone spiral staircase into a musty cafe.

Much the same, are the people that inhabit, no that’s not quite right, people that- occupy and linger in the spaces of dreams. They don’t really live there, they’re more like fishes in ponds. Filling the spaces with movement and flow without me ever needing to pay any attention to who they are or what they do. They simply are, in the spaces. So that the space isn’t empty. I don’t interact with them. I can’t really hear anything in dreams. I can read, though. Sometimes pages upon pages, of words that I do recognize to be what they are, full sentences that make sense. I don’t remember much when I wake up, in terms of words. Ideas, places, actions.

But you see, I don’t tend to see anyone familiar. Mostly, certainly, for the same reasons spaces aren’t the spaces I’ve lived in. The people around me don’t ‘exist’. They are, they do, they act and they move, but they don’t ‘exist’. Sometimes their faces and expressions are clear, sometimes they motion something to me, selling, presenting, preparing. Mundane things, that don’t really matter. They walk, they talk, they laugh and have fun and go about their days, near me, not with me.

And I feel, that I’m mostly content with it. I like the spaces, I like the flow, I don’t need the interaction. I like walking about, exploring the tiny nooks and crannies of the worlds, seeing old iron fences painted bright red, structures and flow.

But, last night, I saw a space that I’ve been in. Breathed in.  

I’ve seen it once before in a dream, but wasn’t ‘there’. Back then I saw what I could identify as the stone foundation of that place. It was sticking out in a vast space, between dunes of sand. It had been empty, lost, gone, abandoned. I had opened a door to a small closet that had been left intact, and people I’m related to in blood, walked out and into the vast desert, in different directions, until they could no longer be seen. People that were, people that are. All going somewhere. I didn’t chase after, only watched them go.

It had been a dream about loss and being lost. About accepting that places go as people do. It hadn’t been painful, only quiet. And then the dream had shifted someplace else entirely, and I continued my journey.

But, last night, that same place, wasn’t in ruins.

It was filled with people, some that I’m not close to at all, some that I carry a grudge to, some that I hadn’t met. Some that claimed to be people they cannot be. It was that place, ‘before’ it had gone, but also ‘after’ it had gone. It had rehashed between times that aren’t and times that were, with people that were and those that aren’t. People that cannot be, and people that can. People that shouldn’t be, and people that should be but aren’t.

It had walls that had been patched, in several tones and sizes of tiles. It made sense but it didn’t. I could see that this place had gone a little wonky. It was there, I could see some old things here and there, but it had new and unfamiliar things strewn about in a way that no one would build deliberately. It was a place where the people who aren’t, lived. I accepted this, it seemed reasonable to make accommodations that match that which isn’t. Why there were people that shouldn’t be there, I do not know. I didn’t care to see them there, or at all, but if they didn’t make a fuss, what did it matter?

There was, however, someone there that did matter. I suppose they’ve become somewhat of a regular companion in the dreams that don’t haunt me, as rare as they are. Is it my own loneliness that brings them there? Likely so. It doesn’t feel bad, in the dreams, not being alone. Sometimes, I can gather meanings about my own thoughts and feelings in the waking world, through the ways they accompany and interact with me in dreams. Sometimes, I can almost hear them, in the dreamspace where sound doesn’t really ‘exist’ to me. They are always reasonable, kind, gentle. Just, there, when I feel the most lost.

I feel a little guilty, letting them be there. I shouldn’t, should I? But there’s something soothing in their warmth, consoling. But, I do feel a little guilty, letting them be there. I don’t approach them. I suppose there’s something about dreaming a person that says ‘dubious consent’ to me, and I cannot approach them. I could, but I don’t. ‘I shouldn’t let them be there, they wouldn’t want to be there’. But I let them exist. Sometimes, I am lead somewhere that requires attention, sometimes, I am simply held. Sometimes I sit there, and listen to meanings expressed. I don’t initiate anything, though. Lately, though, it’s been less in the way of complex meanings and dilemmas I feel in the waking world, and more in the vein of ‘simply lonely’.

In the old space that had been made different, I’d sat in the living room. It must have been a celebration of some sort, by the amount of people there, and in the lack of available chairs. For the people that aren’t, I supposed. Like a housewarming party.

I don’t think I liked being there that much, but I took in the people there and listened. And then they were there, right beside my chair. I couldn’t leave yet, but there were no available chairs left and I didn’t want them to go away. So, I gently nudged them to sit in the same chair, on my lap. And I held them as I listened people prattle along.  After a while, there was a tour along the space. It had a particular room, the one with the tiles, that looked like it would go much much deeper had I gone toward the backrooms I knew had been there at some point. It was very dark after the second doorway, right past the people and the new tiles. I didn’t get to go deeper, as my companion took my hand and led me away from that place without a word. I awoke.

Waking up, it had probably been the smartest choice. It had every makings of an entrance to a nightmare, not that I could recognize such in dreams themselves. People smiling just ever so slightly enough to be nonthreatening, but with faces I didn’t know and trust. Inviting me to explore. Darkness looming about, the twisting of things that are ordered and structured very particularly in my dreams.

I feel guilty, though. About holding onto my dream’s companion. Grateful that they keep safe, but I shouldn’t indulge myself in their presence. That inviting warmth and softness and sweetness. It’s not the right thing to do, even if it’s not sensual in nature. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t. I cannot bear the thought of pushing my own feelings on any incarnation of them. How much had I suffered for such myself? I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to be that. A dream or not.    

So, I wake in a complex tangle of feelings and guilt.

I head to the kitchen to prepare some tea, and I run into my kin. They’re watching old photos on the living room TV. Dad connected a portable drive into it.

.....I hate it. It brings me only melancholy, seeing myself in the photos. Much like looking in a mirror, I cannot see myself in what is reflected. It’s the body I am bound to, the one I’m perceived through, not the being I am. It takes me back to the unbearably sad and angry and tormenting days of my youth. To the control and the constant ‘sister’s and ‘girl’s and ‘lady’s and ‘woman’s. To the endless streams of do’s and don’ts and ‘good intentions’ that bind me in iron shackles. To all the wasted effort I poured into my kin and to everything I kept losing. And then I lost myself, somewhere there. I grew wrong and I look so uncomfortable in simply existing. Why do I look like that? Who’s that? I don’t like seeing this body. It’s not ‘right’.

I can’t help but to think, that that’s all I’ll ever be. I’ll always be the image that’s reflected back, that stranger whose face I can’t ever quite get used to seeing. It’s all in the wrong places, and it won’t ever be in the right ones. It’s too far gone.

If I was to die today, or tomorrow, though, all that suffering would amount to naught. I’d have never lived. What would be the point, to end the tally on a zero? Or a minus for that matter. Perhaps, it’ll never be a positive integer, or a sum that feels satisfying. But if it was to end now, it would certainly never have a chance to reach anything but a zero. So I live in the vain hope that maybe tomorrow won’t be like today. I daydream of a miracle that could make it right, so I didn’t feel like such a stranger every day. It won’t come, I know. But I need that image in my heart, the one that feels right. Even if it’s too far to reach. Much like my dream’s companion, I suppose. I don’t think I could bear the weight of my own heart without.

Today’s somber. I feel heavy and guilty and sad in a way that I cannot resolve. It’ll go, eventually. But I need to feel the sadness and regret for it to pass. It’s rough with this mind so foggy and thick and dull, so I’ll stay out of everyone’s way for today.

Write it out, feel it through, let it pass.